


Everything's Fine

by earth_dragon



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Caring Jensen, Could be M/M or Gen depending on how you look at things, Crying Misha, Depressed Misha, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Sad Misha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4004677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earth_dragon/pseuds/earth_dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha knew he had every reason in the world to be so grateful. And truly, he was. It was just that sometimes… well, sometimes he just wanted a break.</p><p>He couldn't even remember the last time someone asked him if he was ok...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything's Fine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElizaStyx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizaStyx/gifts).



> After a few really, sort of horrible days (weeks) I had to sit down and write this. I am more like Misha than I would like to admit, I think. Or more accurately, I think he is more like me. And so often in fic I see the full spectrum of his humanity glossed over. I wanted to address that. I also really, really wanted to say: if someone seems off to you, please speak up. You may be the only one who does, and you may make a world of difference to them. Don't just assume they're ok, even if they're usually an extrovert and it seems like they *should* be ok. Don't just assume.
> 
> July 2016 EDIT: I edited a few sentences to reflect more of Misha's true personality as an introvert rather than an extrovert. He has stated he actually is rather introverted rather than extroverted, but fully believes in people and the goodness of people. He derives his own creative energy from the collective motivation and energy of those around him, especially if those around him are trying to do something unique that will positively benefit others. I wanted to reflect that.

Misha loved people. Obviously.

He loved being around people, the crowds, the fans. He drew energy from their energy and he used it to propel himself forward, to drive his creativity and keep his interest fresh. He loved being able to study people, to learn about their thought patterns, behavior, cultures, why they felt the way they felt.

More than anything, he loved helping people.

His entire charity was founded on the idea that one small random act of kindness could have a large impact on someone else’s world. He truly believed that. It was something he had experienced first hand, as both the receiver, and the giver. And now that he was in a more secure and financially stable position, he wanted to continue giving so others could receive.

But sometimes… sometimes Misha still longed to be on the receiving end.

He hated it when he had those thoughts. He didn’t feel like he deserved them. People were kind to him -- of course they were! At conventions he saw thousands of fans who paid hundreds of dollars just to have the chance to speak to him and have their pictures taken with him. He received all kinds of beautiful, wonderful, and odd handmade gifts; people often even told him he was the reason why they decided to fight through their depression or suicidal thoughts.

Misha knew he had every reason in the world to be so grateful. And truly, he was. It was just that sometimes… well, sometimes he just wanted a break.

He loved the crowds, loved the fans, loved his family, his friends, his co-workers. And he was always ON for them. Always. It felt like he was always Misha Collins, Mr. Personality.

He couldn’t even remember the last time someone asked him if he was ok, not even casually.

The truth was, he was so tired and stressed he could have ripped his hair out. But no one wanted to know about that, so he kept it to himself. And he felt guilty for even thinking about it because he knew he had every reason in the world to be grateful.

So he just plugged on, because what else was there to do?

Day after day. Week after week.

The show had to be filmed; and if he laughed less and less at Jared and Jensen’s pranks, well... no one noticed.

Conventions had to be attended; and if his usual banter and wit with the fans slowly died off to become short, clipped answers, well… he was never called out on it.

Marks had to be hit, and contracts had to be negotiated, and maybe his head hurt more often than it used to because he carried too much tension in his shoulders. Or maybe he dropped a few pounds over the weeks because he didn’t feel like eating as much or as often as he should, but he still kept running, faster and further than he probably should have.

It didn’t mean anything was really wrong. Wouldn’t someone else notice if something was really wrong?

He was a terrible person for hoping someone else would notice.

He had friends. He had a lot of friends. Surely someone else would notice the bags under his eyes sooner or later, or the way he no longer smiled.

After all, he couldn’t just ask for help, it wasn't allowed. Someone like him wasn't allowed to be down, to be overwhelmed, to want quiet or solitude, or even just a damn hug. The last time he had tried to talk to someone about any of this they had laughed at him and said, “Oh, but you’re never in a bad mood. You’ll be fine.”

So he was fine. Even when he wasn’t.

Because people like him were always fine. Misha Collins was not allowed to have a bad day. Forget about having a bad week or a few bad weeks -- that absolutely could not happen.

Because he was fine.

It didn't matter that he was so stressed out that simply burning pastries in the oven were enough to bring tears to his eyes now. It only mattered that nobody noticed when he just threw the pastries away and didn't eat for the rest of the day. But he still ran, even if he was having some trouble keeping his jogging shorts up now.

Misha hated himself for wishing that somebody would notice, and for thinking that if this were happening to someone else, it would be *his job* to notice it and fix it.

No one ever tried to fix him. No one ever believed anything was ever wrong with him.

~*~

There was coffee all over his shirt.

It was after midnight and there was coffee all over his shirt.

He had been packing up to go home. The shoot for the day was finally over. Only now there was coffee all over his shirt, and he didn't have a spare shirt with him.

And people were laughing.

It really was not funny. It had been an accident. Misha had only been drinking coffee because he was tired. He was tired because he hadn’t been sleeping well. All he had been trying to do was open his trailer door, but his hands were full, and they had slipped, and now his only shirt was soaked in burning hot coffee.

And people were laughing at him.

Misha couldn't even form words. Usually he would be able to laugh off something like this himself, but not this time. He hadn’t really laughed in weeks but no one had noticed. He was so tired, and he was embarrassed; his chest burned, and now his shirt was ruined. It was too much.

It was just all too much.

Misha yanked open his trailer door and scrambled inside, he locked the door behind him. Without thought, he yanked off his soaked shirt and threw it to the floor. His chest was red where the hot coffee had scalded him, but he didn't care.

In fact, he rather liked the pain. At least he knew how to deal with things physically even if he could no longer deal with them mentally.

_he was fine_

Misha stomped into the trailer's small bathroom. For a moment, he took stock of himself in the mirror. He was haggard: pale, too thin, with bags under his eyes. He looked like someone who hadn't known peace for months.

_he was fine_

Misha pulled back and punched the mirror.

_he was fine_

He did it again…

_fine_

and again…

_FINE_

and again until his reflection was splintered, shattered, and his hand was utterly busted. When his right hand could take no more, Misha began beating at the frame with his left hand. Blood flowed down his busted, split fingers, digging glass shards and wooden splinters deeper and deeper into his skin, and Misha felt more alive than he had in weeks. He didn’t even realize how hard he was crying, or that he was speaking out loud.

_he was fine. he was FINE! GOD DAMMIT!_

He never heard his trailer door being unlocked. He never even realized someone else was in the room with him until he was being physically pulled away from the destroyed mirror and yanked out of the tiny bathroom.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Misha didn’t even know who he was speaking to, struggling against, just that they were bigger than him and they were holding him down.

“Misha stop. STOP! Please!”

“Let go of me!” Misha bellowed. “I said I’m fine!”

“But you’re not!”

Suddenly Misha found his wrists grasped in tight hands -- Jensen’s hands. Huh. So Jensen was the one who had found him. He had forgotten that Jensen had keys to his trailer.

“Look Misha! Look.” Jensen pulled his hands up to eye level, to make him look at the damage done: busted knuckles, blood dripping, cuts and scrapes, and splinters of every kind.

As if he wasn’t aware.

“You’re not fine.”

Misha rolled his eyes up to met Jensen’s, and something inside of him snapped. His lips curled and he snarled. “No, I’m not! I’m not fine! I’ve not BEEN fine. Nice of someone to finally fucking notice! Now fucking let go of me! I’ll take care of it. Because that’s what I do -- I take care of everything myself!”

Misha violently yanked his hands out of Jensen’s grasp and backed away, he stormed back over to the bathroom, his heart racing, furious that the one time he let himself have a breakdown it had to be interrupted. And now he had a mess to clean up. At this rate he was never going to get home tonight.

Misha ignored the way his shoes crunched over the broken glass as he reached down to the small cabinet under the bathroom sink for medical supplies. He would have to sweep that up in the morning; he couldn’t possibly do it tonight. He was still so tired. And he was afraid of what he would do if he let himself handle large pieces of sharp glass right now. He already had a history of self harm, after all. Sitting down on the closed toilet, he began to pick small shards of glass and wooden splinters out of his skin with a pair of tweezers.

He had really fucked up.

Everyone was going to yell at him for this: his family, friends, bosses, show-runners, make-up and wardrobe, the writers, his co-stars.

Fuck! Jensen was still there, watching him. In his fury, Misha had almost forgotten about him.

“You don’t have to be here, you know. I’ll take care of it,” he bit out, yanking another sliver out of the back of his finger, watching as blood welled up in the injury.

“Yeah, because you’re fine. Right?” Jensen replied, his voice small, concerned.

Misha could not answer that, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from welling up again either, so he just stayed quiet and did his best to continue removing the splinters from his busted hands.

Jensen calmly approached the bathroom doorway. “Would you let me take you to the emergency room?” he asked. “You may have broken bones.”

“They’re not broken.”

“Would you let me take you anyway, just to be sure?”

Misha sternly shook his head no. He was not going to the hospital. He didn’t deserve treatment for his own fuck up.

“Well then, would you let me check them, bandage them up?”

“I can do it.”

Jensen slowly, carefully reached out a hand and hooked it around Misha’s bicep. Misha yanked away from him, but Jensen was persistent, pulling gently until Misha was on his feet. “I know. I know you can do it. But I want to check.”

Misha let himself be led out into the living space and placed down on the couch, because what else was he going to do now?

“Just let me check, ok. I want to see,” Jensen told him again, taking up the small medical kit and a couple of towels from the bathroom.

“I’m fine.”

Misha was not fine. He was bloody, and busted up, crying and shaking, and he had carried all of it for far too long and no one had noticed. He hadn’t told anyone because no one would believe him. People like him weren’t allowed to have a bad time, a bad day.

Misha Collins was not allowed to be depressed.

And no one was going to pay attention when he was.

Jensen poured peroxide over his hands and Misha hissed. Funny, he didn’t realize how much they actually hurt until now, but Jensen gently held his hands in place and wouldn’t let him pull away.

“They’re gonna swell and bruise up something awful.”

“Mm.”

“But I don’t think anything’s broken.”

“Mm.”

Jensen rooted around in the medical kit until he found some topical ointment. He began to spread it over the worst of the cuts. “I’m gonna bandage these, and then you need to ice them down. You won’t be able to carry anything for a while.”

“I’ll manage,” Misha insisted stubbornly.

Jensen wrapped the gauze tightly around the purpling, lacerated fingers. “Just because you can manage doesn’t mean you should anymore,” he answered, holding Misha’s crucified hands between his own. “Let somebody else carry it for a while.”

Misha laughed derisively, the air rattling in his stuffed up nose.

“Why is that funny?”

“It’s really not, actually. Thanks but no thanks.”

“Misha…”

“Fuck off, Jensen!”

The words, curt and cruel, felt good, felt justified, coming out of his mouth. “You’re so worried now. Where the hell were you all this time? Where was everybody? Do you know what happened the last time I tried to tell someone I wasn’t ok? They told me I was fine! Because I was always fine! Because I was never in a bad mood; things never got to ME! I’m not allowed to be off, to have a bad day, or need help. I’m always FINE!” The words roared out of Misha’s mouth, angry and raw, and full of venom. Tears tumbled down his face, and he felt himself crumbling down off the couch and into the floor.

It didn’t matter anyway. He’d already fucked things up. Everyone was going to know what happened; it wasn’t like he could hide it. The mirror was shattered; his hands were busted up; they could probably hear him outside if anybody was still left onset. He knew he was already in trouble, so what difference did it make if Jensen hated him now too? He would only be one of many. Surely Jensen would walk out of here any second and slam the door behind him.

Except he didn’t.

Jensen lowered himself to the floor and wrapped his arms around Misha’s huddled, shuddering form.

Misha jerked, startled by the contact. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What?!”

“I’m sorry, Misha.”

“What? No!”

Jensen pulled him in close and Misha began to panic. This was not at all what was supposed to happen. This wasn’t Jensen slamming the door, or screaming at him, telling him to deal with it, to get over it. This wasn’t anger or laughter.

He was so confused.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t know. I didn’t see. I’m sorry, Misha.”

Jensen’s arms were tight around him, unyielding, rocking him. And Misha was so confused. He knew he should push away, but he wanted this so badly. So badly. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had offered this to him, and it felt so good to just give in, to crumble and take for once.

To be on the receiving end.

“I hate being like this,” he sobbed. “I shouldn’t be like this. I have no reason. I should be fine.”

Jensen massaged the knots at the back of Misha’s neck, and God! how long had those been there? They were like rocks! “Sometimes being told over and over again that you have no right to feel a certain way is enough to make you feel that way. No one should have ever told you something like that.”

“But it’s true.”

“It’s NOT true! You’re allowed bad days just like the rest of us.” Jensen tipped Misha’s face up and gently cupped his wet cheeks between his hands. “You’re allowed to ask for help with them, too,  just like the rest of us. You’re only human, Misha. And you don’t always have to be fine.”

Misha looked at him, stunned, his eyes wide and watery. Disbelieving.

“No one has ever told you that before, have they?” Jensen asked, incredulous. “How long have you been carrying this?”

Misha couldn’t answer that, he wasn’t ready to yet. The fact that he didn’t have to hide anymore was overwhelming. He couldn’t believe that someone believed him.

“I shouldn’t have broken the mirror,” Misha whispered, suddenly ashamed. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

Jensen sighed and thumbed the corners of his eyes, brushing away the tears that still lingered there. “No,” he agreed, “But you shouldn’t have had to feel like you weren’t allowed to ask for help either. You actually had to start breaking things before anyone noticed, and that was our fault. My fault,” Jensen corrected. “But you gotta talk to me before things get to this point again, Misha. Understand?”

Misha nodded and lowered his eyes. He was still sad and hurting, overwhelmed, but it seemed like the knot that had been lodged in his chest for the past few weeks was finally loosening; he could breathe a little easier.

He was not fine, and he wouldn’t be for a while yet, but he was no longer so alone.

And he was grateful for that.

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